


From The Vasty Deep

by gisho



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Arthur Pendragon - Character, Gen, Owain Glyndŵr | Owen Glendower - Character, Palaver Without Plot, Violence, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:52:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1831, two old friends meet in the midst of a minor revolution, and discuss the future and the past of Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Vasty Deep

**Author's Note:**

> From a kinkmeme prompt: _Each nation is actually the spirit of an important historical figure. That person was too strong-willed to die for good, so their spirit lingered and eventually they became the nations that are in Hetalia now. Anon has seen 'England as King Arthur' a few times but would like to see this with other nations._

#### June 6, 1831

The connoisseur of riots would probably rate this one pretty highly. Eight of ten for noise, maybe - there's a lot. Hoofbeats, stomping feet, angry rumbling, low-pitched and hard to identify the source of. There's no unified chant, but you can't have everything. Besides, this is a truly, magnificently vast riot. The dispersing soldiers alone would make a nice, cosy arson mob, and as for the rioters - there are _countries_ with smaller populations than this crowd, although they're the kind you can walk across in an afternoon, that subcontract their national defense. And ten of ten for style. The rioters are dressed in the usual ragged working clothes, thick with smoke and coal dust. Even their faces are daubed black, which just makes them all the more terrifying en masse. That alone wouldn't get the ten; what nudges it up are the flags. They're a sort of dirty red by now, verging on brown, and the same goes for the hands and forearms of the men carrying them. The careless observer would assume they had been badly dyed, or that the rioters hadn't taken the time to get real bright _red_ \- it's the little details that make a riot, really. The thoughtful observer, however, would realize that the brownish shade is the shade of actual, physical, dried blood. There's no detail like corpuscles.

On the other side, soldiers. They're not too shabby. Their coats are red - on a few of the younger, more nervous-looking men, it's bright red, but mostly it's faded and dull with dirt. These are serious soldiers, and they're here with a serious purpose in mind. Even the ones who appear to be in skirts do not look as though they're open to jokes about the fact. One fellow is seriously reading out something in a booming voice, off a little piece of paper clutched in his hand. He might well have bitten a lemon first, for extra-serious expression.

It doesn't appear to be having much effect.

He lowers the paper and looks helplessly at the rioters. At his side, a officer in a tattered coat, missing its rank insignia, barks a laugh. "Well," he says, "it's all fucking legal now, isn't it?"

"That was the Riot Act! Why won't they go away?"

"Try reading it out louder and slower," the officer says, and scowls as he scans the crowd. "Your men slew theirs three days ago, you know. Outside the Castle Inn. But what of that? They might yet run away."

"It is my duty to try," the man with the paper answers, and barks out an order for his men to lower their muskets.

The next bit wouldn't surprise a connoisseur of riots, because something like it happens more often than people think, although not for the reason it's about to. Keeping one's head in the middle of a mob is a special skill, and never exclusive to one side of a street battle. The officer catches the eye of a messy-haired, intense-looking rioter. Then he makes a gesture - a two-fingered wave, followed by a jerk of his thumb toward his lips. From the expression of concentration on his face, it might be the closing gesture of a spell.

It's not. It's one of a handful of signs handed down through the ages by an ancient association of deep and terrifying power, whose nature would astound and terrify most mortals who stumbled upon it, who collaborate to change the face of the world. This particular sign, one of the most common, means: "Screw this. Meet me at the nearest bar once everyone's done screaming."

At this point, normally, a shot would ring out. None does. The rioters and the soldiers stare at each other. A few days ago, at this point in the proceedings, more blood was decorating the street, and the wounded were being carried away.

The street is full of the smell of stale sweat and adrenaline, but nothing else.

A close observer might notice the way the intense-looking rioter's shoulders slump, a fraction of a second before the first few people begin to peel away from the edge of the crowd.

\--

Despite everything, the bar is noisy. The officer has traded his red coat for a plain black one. He's at a small corner table, staring at an untouched pint. The ex-rioter slips in, looks at him for a bit, and then goes up to the bartender.

Shortly afterward he sits down with a tray of glasses. "You want to do the honors or - "

"Go on," the officer says, and finally tilts back his glass. He seems determined to get it all in one swallow. Maybe two.

The rioter makes a series of small, unremarkable gestures that don't look magical at all, and mutters something low-pitched. Nobody notices. Nobody, in fact, is going to notice the table at all, or hear anything from its immediate vicinity, until the sun rises again.

The officer finally lowers his glass. He blinks at the tray. "Think that's enough?"

"You owe me three shillings," the rioter says. There are people in every country who answer questions with tangential statements, despite strenuous eradication efforts.

"It would be pointless, I suppose, to ask that in the name of brotherly fondness you'd let it slip and call this all your round."

The rioter picks a glass at random and knocks it back. When he sets it down he has to wipe a frothy foam-mustache from his lip. "It would be utterly pointless."

"Right, right." The officer sighs and sets his chin on his folded hands.

There's a scrape down the rioter's cheek, the sort a little too long to have been acquired shaving. It twists as he frowns. "What happens now? You track down all my men? I don't suppose that mercy crossed your mind. They weren't asking for much. Well," he amended, "not at first. They did become ambitious, by the end. But it's no great ambition, to want bread. A little better pay, for daunting work - or any work, when it's all that's at hand, and children need a roof over their heads."

"No crime to want bread, no." The officer stares fixedly at the table. "Is it a crime to tear a man's house down, even one who enforces unjust law? To attack soldiers who would keep the peace?"

It's a nice, sturdy table. It doesn't even rock when the officer slams his fist on it. "Goddamnit, Arthur, I would think that you would have a bit of sympathy for them!"

"I do," Arthur says. He takes a deep breath, then a drink, then another deep breath. His companion waits, more or less patiently. "I do," he repeats. "I have more than a bit. But I cannot neglect the rule of law."

"You can do as you damn well please. There's a King William now, if you hadn't noticed."

"Then I _will not_ neglect the rule of law." Arthur closes his eyes. "My sympathies are with yours, and with them. I will see to it that as many as can be are let go. They were desperate men, and wanted only safety for their own. I think I can convince the right men that."

"They wanted reform, too," the rioter reminds him, looking tired. "A voice to hear, a chance to choose some of their government. You must recall - "

"I do. That means a lot. And nothing that a magistrate would call a cause for mercy, in this time and place. They'll say that all the blood three days ago must be paid back, and never mind that all they wanted were the weapons, not the blood. Nor will they care that marchers died, that day." Arthur rubs his eyes. "Dammit, there's only so much we can do. You ought to know that. Things fall as they will. We do not drive events; they must drive us."

The rioter takes a long drink. "I know that, Arthur, I would not forget," he says wearily. "Do what thou can, and I shall do the same."

There is silence after that, for the space of about a glass and a half.

At length the officer deliberately sets down his drink, wipes clean the foam from his lips. "Owain," he says. "What would you have me do, old friend?"

Outside their little circle the bar is only growing noisier. Someone looks as though he's threatening to stand on a table and sing. His friends are restraining him. A tall woman in a faded red dress talks intently with a group of fellows who look like they haven't washed all week. It all blurs around them. Owain finally sighs. "I would that you take up your sword again, and lead this country to its bright new dawn." His lips twist, in something not entirely unlike a smile. "And yet I know that will not, cannot, be."

"Yes." Arthur stiffens a little, sitting up straighter. "As you said. Now England has a king - now _Britain_ has a king, and Ireland too, for what good it may do them. Politics," he adds, voice dark with bitterness. "It's all politics now, and subtle deals."

"Was ever it otherwise?"

"No. But once, one person could set out and change the world. They still wish - You remember that. You tried."

Owain sets down his pint. "I did not act alone. You do know that. I told a story that men longed to hear, and they flocked to my banner and my cause. You did likewise, friend. Once upon a time. To be a king, now, means but little - yet men still need heroes, and they make their own. Causes make heroes, and not the reverse. I think we saw some heroes, these past days - unless, to suit the Saxon lords, they die."

"I will do what I can," Arthur says to his whiskey. "I told you that. Enough men died three days ago, and more. I would not let the hangman add to it. I laid charms of confusion on my men, that they will seek the woods in fruitless swirls for those they hold at fault for this affray."

"And I laid near-invisibility on a few men. It will last but a day, but that is time enough to make more plans." Owain folds his arms. "I did not mean to say you did not try," he continues, softer. "We are constrained; this story's not yet ours. The time of need is not yet near at hand. Why, come that hour, we'll see more certain work. I'll rain down heavenly fire upon our enemies; I'll harrow them with shadows and with sprites, and make the earth to quake beneath their feet, that they should know the land would see them gone, in concert with its people. And its king."

"And thus the Saxons cast from England's shores?" Owain makes no answer but a glare, and after a second Arthur looks away. "No; that's too harsh. The question has not been British and English, for a thousand years. You know that. You have known it all along."

Owain unfolds his arms and reaches for a third glass. "If I had not, I would have soon enough, when old Britannia handed down her crown. And when she told me what became of you."

They drink in silence for a while, while around them the angry buzzing of the bar begins to settle down. They do not, quite, meet each other's eyes. When each of them begins a fourth glass, they both go for the gin, as if to drive themselves to drunkenness a little faster.

Abruptly, halfway through and voice thick with emerging insobriety, Owain asks: "Why did she do that? She would never say."

It takes Arthur a few seconds to remember what they were talking about, from his look of confusion. When he does he puts his head in his hands. "Four hundred years, and now you ask me that?"

"I do. There is no profit for us now, talking again of wounds too new to scab. We can but wait and hope; we will not act. So speak to me of things of long ago."

"I would, except - " Arthur shrugs. "She never said to me."

Owain has no reply to that. They go back to their silent drinking.

\--

#### June 7, 1831

Anyone who had seen how much beer, whiskey, gin, even poteen by the time things got late and they had to venture out for a second tray, the two consumed last night, would not have expected them to be upright before noon. But before nine, they're outside an unregarded side door of Penydarran House, and if they look harried and tired it's no more than most of the men in red coats do, hurrying in and out with papers. Last night saw plenty of noise, and this morning the jails are full.

But no one saw; no one ever sees them, if they wish not to be seen. No one sees them walk away, either.

They're out of the press of buildings, picking their way up a rocky hillside, before Owain speaks. "What news? I saw your confusion ran dry."

"If men are fool enough to fly to _home_ ," Arthur snaps, "if they have so much boldness or less sense, the fault is in them, and not in my spell." He's sweating, but he makes no move to shed his coat or even to rub his eyes. "We should not make such petty quarrels as these."

"Ever the peacemaker. I'll ask no more."

They pause at the top of a ridge, grassy and undistinguished. Far below, further than anyone who was watching only them would think they had climbed, a scree of small buildings is strewn across the valley floor. Owain looks down. He has no sword, but his hand hovers as if ready to draw one. Arthur's arms are folded.

"They've found no sign of Lewis Lewis yet," Arthur finally says. "They have men out to search in every house where some unlucky soul was found last night."

Owain sighs. "And those unlucky souls?"

"Several will be let go, within the week." Arthur clenches his fists in the fabric of his faded red coat. He doesn't meet his companion's eyes; all his attention is on the town below. "The rest will have fair trials, and as soon as all can be arranged. A month, perhaps. All we can do is wait and hope, again."

"Then we will wait. We've plenty of practice."

That gets a laugh, weary, but without hysteria. Only self-mockery, and perhaps that is the edge that makes Owain join in, until Arthur is bent over clutching his knees and gasping. When the fit passes, as if on some signal, they sit down on the grass, still watching the town far below, not quite close enough to touch, not looking in each other's eyes.

Eventually Arthur leans back, rubbing at his eyes. There are shadows beneath them. "I thought about your question," he begins. "From last night."

"Can you guess what was in Britannia's mind?"

"I can but guess. But this is what I think: She knew, even those days, the land was lost unto the Saxons - but not Saxony." His words are slow, as if he works it out as he speaks. "This land is its own place, and ever was. No empire could absorb it to herself. But still, she could not bear to take them in, after so hard a battle for our shore. You know Britannia was too proud for that." Owain's eyes narrow, but he lets Arthur continue, unprotesting. "I think she saw a billing to be filled - and filled it with her own, rather than let some foreigner step in and claim her land. I think she saw that that Englishmen would stay. So she made England Britain, as she could."

"Think you she meant to wait so long to find her own successor? It must not have been simple or painless, losing so much land. Loegria first, and then all the Old North. She said the land means more to us than most."

"It must have stung, but what choice did she have?" Arthur spreads a hand. "This is their land now. Our land."

"And they still would take what little refuge I have left." Owain says the words lightly enough, although there is some deep pain behind them. "Each year more of my people learn their tongue. Twelve centuries, and still they press on west."

"You insult your own people," Arthur offers, "if you think twelve more will see the conquest truly done."

"I think that they will fight, and will not fail. You saw of late how valiant they can be. I wish but that the need would die away."

"That is not in my power to offer you. You know how little heed our governments pay to us, when we speak unwelcome truths. Why do you think I speak so little now? Someday, we'll have our chance to make it right. Someday the things our people need will be the first concern of governments again."

"Why do you think," Owain answers, "I fight so hard for mine?" He thumps the ground between them, instinctively giving emphasis to his argument. "Democracy's not some strange new idea. You saw that, fifty years ago - how hard someone will fight, given the hope of making better chances for themselves. Your government will learn, or it will fail." He looks over at Arthur for a moment, then turns away. "You are Britannia's heir as much as I. Her people left a mark that will not fade; they left descendants, stories, and it is no strangeness that England is British now. I don't begrudge the English their own lands. 'Twere foolishness, after so many years - and your people have no more ease than mine, except the lucky few, the noblemen." The last word is dropped into the sentence collared with thick scorn. "Perhaps their cause will choose its own hero. But if they need a king, they'll ask for one. My people wanted but to rule themselves."

"Strange sentiments, from one who was a prince."

"And was called on, to serve a vaster cause. Who still must serve. Times change, and men with them, and our kind must change as our people do. I will stand with them, and be what they need. And if they rise to claim what's rightly theirs, I shall fight with them, with all that I can."

Arthur appears to be staring at the busy ironworks. There is nothing telling in his posture, and his expression is blank. Finally, it shifts into a rueful smile. "Valor," he says, "can change the world, and you have that. You do not, never did, know how to fail. If you had stood with me, when I was king - Would you were born nine hundred years before."

"Would you were born that much later, old friend. We two might have done much, when times were right."

"We'll have our chance. I would not venture when."

Owain nods. "There will be reasons. Times will change again."

That seems to be an agreement of sorts, for they speak no more, only watch far below.

After a while, Owain stands up. He doesn't bother brushing off the dirt. There's nothing in his posture, now, to suggest anything but a common man; his motions are loose and a little careless, and he slumps, shoulders hunching beneath his ill-filling coat. He holds out a hand. Arthur takes it and rises. His free hand goes to adjust his slung musket, but the other stays clasped in Owain's. They share a thoughtful look, and then Arthur lets go, and turns aside, and walks three steps.

Not the most careful of observers would be able to tell quite which way he had gone.

Owain sighs, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Then he turns and follows, and three steps later, he, too, is gone. There is no trace of their passing on the hill. Its grasses blow gently in the breeze, and its rocks look down at the houses far below, where humans argue and cook and laugh and make love and wait, and hope. But on the hillside, there is no one at all.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> The Merthyr Rising, in the summer of 1831, began as a protest against lowered wages at a local ironworks. It escalated to include storming a courthouse and breaking into private homes to retrieve property seized as debt payments, laying siege to a hotel where government officials were meeting, and seizing the weapons of troops sent to quell the disturbance. There were two marches, more than twelve thousand strong; the first, on the Castle Inn, resulted in a violent altercation with soldiers and the deaths of many marchers; the second, several days later, was dispersed by the threat of musket fire without injury. A red flag, dyed with calves' blood, was flown by the marchers. At the time the red flag was not a specifically Communist symbol, but represented popular movements in general.
> 
> The marchers were dispersed by the troops; the movement's leaders were captured after a brief manhunt. Several, including Lewis Lewis - one of the leaders - were sentenced to death, but the sentences commuted to transportation to Australia. Possibly because the magistrates were determined to make an example of _someone_ , Dic Penderyn, a coal miner, was executed despite having only a small role in the riots, and despite massive petitions for clemency.
> 
> The rising achieved none of its immediate goals, but it helped inspire the Chartist movement.
> 
> King Arthur, you have probably heard of.
> 
> Owain Glyn Dwr was a descendant of the kings of Powys who, in the early fifteenth century, proclaimed himself 'Prince of Wales' and led an attempt to end English domination of the country. His uprising enjoyed vast popular support and lasted more than a decade, but eventually was worn down by prolonged siege warfare. Owain fought on as a guerrilla leader for some time. Despite rewards for information and offers of pardon, he was never captured, and his ultimate fate is unknown.


End file.
